


No Worries

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Greg Lestrade, Chest Hair, Dating, First Time, Greg Lestrade is a Handsome Beast, Hairy Greg, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Fails at Slowburn, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: After many years of knowing Greg Lestrade, Mycroft has at last become involved with him. They've been taking things slowly so far, fearing that a spoiled love affair might have consequences for Sherlock's welfare - until certain discoveries speed things along.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 15
Kudos: 251





	No Worries

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome one and all to the official launch of the Hairy Greg tag on AO3. A long overdue occasion, I'm sure you'll agree.

An extremely pleasant evening at the Barbary leads to kissing and heavy petting on the couch in Mycroft's lounge, hands finally permitted to wander. Everything has happened rather slowly until now, Mycroft in no haste to reach intimacy ahead of time. The man he still occasionally thinks of as  _ Lestrade  _ is his younger brother's protector, after all; a soured love affair between the two of them might cause problems for Sherlock. But the weeks have been passing very comfortably, and Greg's choice of black shirt for this evening has pooled a particular heat in Mycroft's stomach, one he finds himself inclined to indulge—just a little.

A few strategic buttons are loosened as they kiss, belts unbuckled for comfort. Mycroft shifts himself up into Greg's lap, unashamed to enjoy the little frisson of power that it gives him: his lover breathing hard against his mouth, restless hands grasping at his body through his suit, a very flattering bulge now pressed up against his thigh. It's beguiling to know that he can have this effect on Greg. He'll have to bring a stop to this encounter soon enough, lest things progress beyond his intentions for the evening, but being wanted so openly by such a handsome man is intoxicating. A few more minutes of teasing exploration can't hurt.

As he pushes his hands beneath Greg's partly-open shirt, his fingertips aching for just one sweep across an abundance of skin, Mycroft makes a discovery that his plans had not taken into account. He's startled to find himself touching a far thicker spread of chest hair than he expected, plush and deep and dense enough to rake his fingers through. He does so, strangely thrilled to try it. Greg's chest heaves up into the contact and he shudders, kissing Mycroft ever more fiercely than before.

The sensation of chest hair thick enough to grip is new, and very welcome. None of Mycroft's previous lovers have had such an abundance. Purely through matters of access, he's often ended up in bed with men who are similar in body type to himself, Oxbridge and Westminster types not known for their beards or the width of their forearms. Greg holds a unique position in Mycroft's experience. He's a man of cooked breakfasts, car magazines and cold beer in the fridge.

And though Mycroft has glimpsed a suggestion of hair now and then at the neck of Greg's shirt, this profusion makes a fascinating surprise.

The hot flash of Greg's tongue inside his mouth is suddenly rather impossible to resist. As he shivers, returning Greg's deeper kiss, Mycroft supposes that they  _ have  _ been involved for several months now. They can hardly delay things indefinitely over a chance of some impact on Sherlock. And after all, it's abundantly clear that Greg is devoted to Sherlock's wellbeing. He's responsible, emotionally secure and discreet, and shows zero signs of tiring of Mycroft. The decision to take things slowly was wise at first, but now seems a trifle  _ over _ -careful—a precaution that could perhaps be dispensed with.

Mycroft inhales, tugging gently at Greg's chest hair, and earns himself a soft and thick-throated moan for it. Greg shifts beneath him, restless. His large hands slip gently beneath the hem of Mycroft's shirt; shuddering, Mycroft permits them to remain.

Ten minutes later, the last shreds of Mycroft's self-restraint—along with Greg's boxer shorts—knock a small ornament off the mantlepiece as they're tossed aside.

Greg's body hair is just as thick below his belt as above it. He's well-endowed, his cock as proud and impressive as a Sherwood oak. Something about the forest of dark hair which surrounds it has Mycroft on his knees within seconds. He remains there far longer than he normally would, experiencing something wildly akin to reverence as he employs every trick of the tongue he's ever learned, determined to do his very best for Greg. The memory of thick fingers, flexing with pleasure in his hair, will be distracting him at work for weeks. Never before has it felt like an honour to do this for someone. As Mycroft works, he roams his splayed hands over the planes of Greg's stomach, stroking and petting his hair, and Greg groans deliciously with every gentle tug.

They retire to Mycroft's bedroom not long after. They end up staying awake for most of the night, talking softly and fucking and discovering. By morning, Greg Lestrade had seen more of Mycroft's soul than anyone else has been allowed to see in years. He has tasted Mycroft, touched him, known him, explored every last little inch of him. His fingertips tease and soothe in perfect balance, and his hands support and guide. His voice murmurs all the right things; he says them at all the right times.

Lying on Greg's chest, somewhere close to dawn, Mycroft finds that his fingers have strayed once again into his lover's fur. He can't stop himself from touching it. There's no gap between Greg's chest hair and his pubic hair. The dark trail drips down over his belly and simply joins. It's magnificent.

Greg gives an amused little huff, kissing the top of Mycroft's head.

"Chest hair, huh?" he murmurs.

Mycroft can't bring himself to protest or scoff. The man has seen far too much of him now for any denial to stand even a chance of working.

"Apparently so," he says instead, a little dazed. It wins him another laugh. Mycroft fans his fingers, watching with quiet contentment as he passes them through Greg's hair. "Mm. You continue to surprise and delight me."

Greg chuckles sleepily, pleased. "I got dumped for it once," he says.

_ Really?  _ Mycroft almost gasps the word aloud. "Surely not," he manages instead, unable to keep the surprise from his tone.

"Kinda wish she'd done it  _ before _ we had sex. She kept saying she was fine, but she was barely touching me. Just lying there, quiet and not really looking at me. In the end we stopped, and I begged her just to tell me what was wrong. She said she couldn't handle me looking like a gorilla. Asked if I'd get waxed or something."

Mycroft keeps a number of barbed remarks inside his mouth, well aware that jealousy underlies the majority of them. He dislikes the thought of anyone else receiving Greg's attentions, and can't decide if it annoys him more or less that those attentions went unappreciated. It's a sleight to Greg's care and consideration as a lover, which naturally makes Mycroft frown—but then, he supposes it's worse to picture that care being enjoyed.

He reminds himself gently that there are only two people currently occupying this bed, takes a breath, and places a small kiss on the corner of Greg's jaw.

"There's no accounting for taste," he offers diplomatically. "For what it's worth, I would staunchly defend you from any advancing beautician wielding an outstretched wax strip. I'd make it  _ extremely _ clear to them that not one single hair is to be harmed."

Greg laughs out loud. "Yeah?" he says, delighted. "You'd see them on their way, would you?"

"I would. What the gods have bestowed, let no mortal rip out at the root."

"Have to admit, the thought makes me a bit queasy... especially particular places." Greg glances down his own body, eyeing the dark thatch around his cock. "I mean, what other blokes want to do with themselves is their business. But I think I'd rather jump in the sewers than have someone wrenching hot wax off my balls."

Mycroft attempts not to wince at the thought. "I can't imagine it's a comfortable procedure."

"Right? And it grows back so bloody fast, I'd be there once a week... cost a fortune, eat up loads of time..." Greg shifts a little, exhaling. "M'glad you're fine with it, anyway," he concludes. "Takes a weight off my mind."

Mycroft brushes his toes against Greg's ankle beneath the sheets, enjoying the easy contact of their bodies. It's touching to think that Greg has anticipated his reaction, worried about it. It warms Mycroft in ways he doesn't fully understand yet.

"I'm entirely fine with it," he says. "Really very pleased, in fact. I fear that you've awakened something in me."

Greg huffs, smiling as he hugs Mycroft closer. "Can't tell you that I'm sorry."

"Good," Mycroft says. "If you tried, I wouldn't believe you." 

They rest together in comfortable quiet for a while, sleepily drifting through their thoughts. The rest of the world will be waking up soon; London never sleeps for long.

"Greg?" Mycroft murmurs at last, not wanting this subject to prey upon his thoughts.

Greg presses his lips to the top of Mycroft's hair, fingertips stroking between his shoulders. "Mm, gorgeous?"

Mycroft gathers his courage.

"This won't affect Sherlock, I hope," he says. "This development between us. He won't have to—... there won't be any risk of him becoming a casualty."

Greg listens without reaction, then takes the time to form a proper answer. Mycroft finds himself glad of it, reassured by the weight that Greg gives to the question.

"I've got a lot of time for you," Greg says at last. "A  _ lot _ of time. You're sharp sometimes when your guard's up, but when it really matters, you're solid as a rock. You put your emotions to one side, look at what's actually there and make good choices. You always have. I know that part won't change, Myc. I hope you think the same about me."

Mycroft's chest aches a little. The words are solid and strong, and they make a better foundation for closeness than any sugary, breezy reassurance ever could. Anyone could lie here beside Mycroft and promise things will always be rosy. It takes a special sort of man to hold him close and say,  _ even if it ends, it ends with respect. _

It engenders the kind of affection that Mycroft rather hopes will  _ never _ end.

"Thank you for reassuring me," he says, his voice calm even as his pulse skips and sings. "I appreciate it... I'll admit that the thought was holding me back somewhat."

Greg smiles against Mycroft's temple, nosing aside a few strands of his hair. 

"No worries, darlin'," he says.


End file.
